Cold
by Be Summer Rain
Summary: It's too late now. (Complete.)


Cold

He's burned out; she knows this. She sees it. She sees more than he'd probably like her to, but they both know that it's inevitable. "Partners are like blood," they'd been told, and after six years she can't always tell where she stops and he begins.

So maybe she should have seen it coming. He'd lost it, and she knows how much he hates losing control. He sees it as a sign of weakness. She does, too, though she doesn't like to admit it. He rubbed his eyes furiously, but she'd seen the tears. She always does.

It was freezing out; this she remembers. She can't imagine why she remembers something like that, but then it's always been the details with him. It was cold and her fingertips were slowly turning to ice, but she didn't really notice that at the time. Funny that she remembers now. It's probably better this way, she reflects, because otherwise she would have wanted to be warm and she can't follow that path because she doesn't know where it leads.

It wasn't snowing, just the bitter cold that makes your lungs hurt when you breathe in. Appropriate, she thinks now. Perhaps she should have stopped him earlier. She prides herself on her reactions; she'd saved several lives because of how quickly she'd reacted. She should have known. She should have watched him more closely. Should have gotten to him before the (innocent, they now know) suspect's wife got in his way. These cases bother him more than the others – the ones with the children. She knows why. They both have this tendancy; they see people they love in every victim. Sometimes she sees herself. Her mother. He sees his children, and nothing will change that.

She hates Kathy sometimes. She sees exactly how much he's hurting, and it's so easy to blame it all on Kathy. So much easier that admitting that yes, part of it was the job. This job won't let you leave it behind when you go home. And yes, maybe it was partly her. She wishes she could call her up and tell her that there was nothing going on between them, that they were simply partners, that she doesn't see him that way. But even as the words were leaving her mouth she would know that she was lying, if only a little.

And this is where she can't go, what she won't allow herself to think. She can tell that she's locking away from him, just a little. She doesn't know if he's noticed, but he probably has. She's angry at herself for doing this, for hurting him more, but she can't imagine what else to do. It was easier when things were clear. There used to be a line. There used to be Kathy. But when she walked away, that line faded out to gray. She's so wary of crossing it that she's stepped back further, as if that would help.

She's never been good at keeping out of people's business. Nobody should have to spend their birthday alone, she'd rationalized, and so she'd called his children and arranged for them to come. Today, sitting at her desk, she still remembers the look on his face when he saw them. When he turned and stared at her. This is what she remembers. She didn't approve of the way her throat constricted, barely allowing her to speak. "Your children are waiting," she'd told him, and he'd looked at her in a way that she couldn't possibly describe, but then she supposes that she reads more into these things that he does.

Mostly she remembers when his children told him to make a wish and he'd looked across the flames at her. And that was it, the line was crossed. She was falling and falling and she knew there was no going back.

Partly to punish herself for that moment, today she barely makes eye contact. He's concerned and she knows it, however hard he tries not to show it. He's never been able to fool her, and she hopes it doesn't work the other way around too. She can't help feeling that her thoughts are written over her face, and she ducks her head so that he can't see.

"Olivia," he says.

"Did you notice his eyes when we interviewed him?" she asks, trying to avoid his next question. "He wasn't telling us something."

"He's not the only one," he says quietly.

"Yeah, I know," she says, suddenly bitter. "You didn't bother to tell me a few things." He sits back in his chair and she regrets it instantly. "Sorry," she says in a low voice. "I shouldn't have said that."

"What's bothering you?" he asks, not bothering to dance around the point. He never does.

"Nothing," she insists, and picks up a case file, even though he knows that he won't let go. "I'm just a little frustrated with this case – we're not getting closer to a perp, and…"

"Olivia. Don't lie to me."

She doesn't say anything to this, and the stinging in her eyes alerts her to the fact that she needs a break, now. "I'm gonna grab some coffee," she mutters, and stands up.

He pushes his chair back and rises abruptly. "I'll go with you."

"Don't," she beseeches, looking away. "I'll be fine. Just need some air. I think I might be getting the flu or something."

He doesn't believe her. She should have known that she couldn't fool him. Should have put up stronger defenses. But it's too late now. For everything.

He grabs her arm as she's leaving, and she jerks away like she's been burned.

"Olivia," he repeats, the smallest note of desperation entering his voice now. "Talk to me."

"Why? You didn't."

"Is that what this is about? I had my reasons," he says, though he gives no indications as to what those reasons might be. She doesn't ask.

"And I have mine. Just let me go."

"No," he says. "You're my partner." His voice has changed. The line is fading. She stares determinedly out the windows. "Olivia. Look at me."

She turns to face him. Her eyes are cold.


End file.
